Ken Bruen - Priest

My beard was coming in, if not my ship. Coming in grey and wretched. Told myself I looked like an artist and muttered,

‘Piss artist.’

For the meeting with Michael Clare, I wore the new jacket from Cody, a white shirt and a tie, loosely knotted to convey nonchalance, and cleanish white cords. All I needed was a yacht and I’d be the total asshole, glass of Pimm’s in my hand to complete the portrait. The pants were slightly short so I wore boots, hoped to offset the discrepancy.

Didn’t.

Splashed on the Polo aftershave and was, if not presentable, at least aromatic. Asked myself why I was meeting him a second time. He’d already confessed, albeit solely to me. What I wanted was for him to confess publicly. That way, I’d be spitting in the eyes of the unholy trinity, sticking it to Clancy, the Church, Malachy. My weapon was Kate. If he thought I’d float the story about his sister being a suspect, he might come forward to save her. The bouncer guy had said he’d do anything for her. I didn’t think for a moment the nun would go public on a woman being capable of the decapitation. I only needed Clare to think she might.

On my way, I met a Romanian named Caz. We had a fractured relationship. The odd times we met, I’d give him a few euro, till, as he said, he got his shit together. He was fond of this phrase and used it as often as he could. I ran into him outside the Quays, music coming loud from there. Sounded like a punk version of ‘Galway Bay’, which is a step beyond articulation. He greeted me with energy.

‘Jack, great to see you.’

Hard to say if he was entering or exiting the pub. He’d been in Galway five years and mastered a form of Irish-English that wasn’t always easy to follow. I said,

‘Caz.’

For a horrible moment, I thought he was going to hug me, which would suggest he was exiting the pub or simply being European. So I quickly palmed him a few notes. He said, as he put them away,

‘Ah Jack, you’re mighty, you know I’m good for it.’

Yeah.

Then he leaned close, said,

‘I hear you’re on the piss.’

He wouldn’t have mentioned that before I parted with the cash, but he’d nothing to lose or gain now. I asked,

‘Has anybody seen me put a glass to my lips?’

That was way too intense, too intellectual a question, so he ignored it. As I mentioned, he’d been in Ireland for five years so knew how to play the verbal combat. He looked back at the Quays, asked,

‘You want one now, my shout?’

Which it would be. He’d shout for the drinks then go to the toilet as payment loomed. I said,

‘I’d love to but I’ve got to meet someone.’

He didn’t believe a word, looked down the street towards Spanish Arch, said,

‘They say you’re drinking in Coyle’s.’

I didn’t deny or confirm. He touched my shoulder, went,

‘You be careful, my friend, it’s a bad place.’

He was quiet, then,

‘What’s this about you having a son?’

I shrugged, said,

‘People blowing smoke.’

He digested that, then asked if I knew they’d deported eighty-eight non-nationals and more were to follow.

I said I hadn’t heard, asked,

‘And you, are you on the list?’

He shrugged, said,

‘We’re all on a list.’

This was a little too deep for me so I probed,

‘Are you legal?’

He got angry, almost petulant, replied,

‘I’m getting my shit together.’

I like Brennan’s Yard. It has an air of class without notions and you can always get a seat. It used to be literally a yard. For bizarre reasons, when they built the hotel, they kept the name. At first it confused people, but had now been assimilated into the life of the city.

Michael Clare was at a table near the door, dressed in another impressive suit, and was if possible even better looking. I rubbed my scraggy beard and felt shabby. He had his legs stretched out, seemed to be totally at ease. I approached, asked,

‘Waiting long?’

He indicated his glass, it had some sort of pink liquid, said,

‘Haven’t touched my Campari and soda.’

I guess a pint of Guinness would have clashed with his suit. I got a diet coke and joined him. The surroundings were some contrast to Coyle’s, but I didn’t share that. He examined me, my beard, tired eyes, said,

‘Been having some late nights, huh?’

What do you do, plead guilty? I said nothing and he asked,

‘How is the new apartment?’

Got me.

Before I could form a reply, a family came in, took the table directly in our line of vision. Young parents with two boys aged around ten. He took a sip of his mouthwash, his eyes riveted on the family. I was at a loss. Where to begin?

My plan had seemed fine in my head. All I had to do was threaten him with my continued harassment of him and his sister and hey presto, he’d agree to come forth, tell the world he was the priest killer. Now it seemed to be the height of folly.

Sitting with this confident, urbane man, my resolve faltered. One of the boys produced a bar of chocolate, began to shove chunks into his mouth. Clare fixed on him, seemed mesmerized by the action. A sheen of perspiration popped out on his brow and the blood, literally, left his face. I asked,

‘You OK?’

He emitted a small whimper, a sound I’ll never forget. Then his eyes rolled back in his head. It was so sudden, dramatic, that I sat immobile till I realized he’d passed out. I leaned over, loosened his tie, began to tap his face. He groaned, and in the voice of a young child muttered,

‘My bum hurts.’

I said,

‘Stay there.’

Went and got a brandy, brought it back, held his head, got the glass to his blue lips, slurped it in. The family were staring open-mouthed. The woman whispered to the husband and they stood, got the hell out. The brandy began to restore colour to his face and he sat upright. I said,

‘Maybe put your head between your knees.’

He waved that away, said,

‘I’m coming out of it. In a minute I’ll be OK. You can’t drag my sister into this, I’ll do anything to keep her sheltered.’

He was coming out of it.

He took another taste of the brandy, nodded.

I was seriously confused. If he could have such a reaction in public, what must he suffer in private? My conscience pleaded,

‘He’s suffered enough — is suffering. Leave him the fuck be.’

Whatever justice I’d envisaged being dealt out to him, how could it offset the price he’d already paid? His composure was near full restored. He asked,

‘So, Jack, what is it you wanted to see me about?’

I shook my head, said,

‘It doesn’t matter now.’

He raised an eyebrow, said,

‘You’re a strange man, Jack. I thought you were going to pressurize me, to attempt to get me to. . how shall I phrase it. . go public? There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for her. I’d give my own life to safeguard her.’

My glass was empty, echoing my heart. I was toying with heading to the counter for another. He smiled and I asked,

‘How did you know where I live?’

He gave a brief smile, no warmth, said,

‘You check up on me, visit my sister for Chrissakes, you don’t think I’d do the same?’

The nun’s words were ringing in my head. The old people used to say the devil was in me, and the only exorcist I knew was dead, so I blurted,

‘Would your sister kill for you?’

He gave a long sigh, shook his head, then said,

‘I think so, but she didn’t kill the priest. She is strong enough, but you know that, you’ve seen her hands. She might go after the nun. I always kind of thought she would, but only if she could use her beloved rifle. . Now me, if I harboured any such thoughts towards the merciless nun, I’d drown the bitch.’